Why Is This Wrong?
by Quirrelmort
Summary: Quirrel/Voldemort. A Very Potter Musical inspired the idea of a sort of "bromance". I wanted to try writing my own. This is my first fanfic. Please tell me if I should continue.
1. Fear In The Brave Professor

Many long years after being destroyed by Harry James Potter, Lord Voldemort accepted a forest in Albania as his home. Or at least his temporary home because once he got his body back, he most definitely did _not_ intend to come back here ever again. But that could be years; centuries even…He yearned not to feel the hopelessness within him. He shouldn't even be able to feel it; he wasn't even human; he should not have to feel human feelings at all. No sir, not the Darkest of Lords. He refused to feel it. He decided to put the matter of his so-called 'feelings' to the back of his mind-or whatever he had that he used to think; he was just a soul fragment right now after all- because now he needed to find a new possession. That's what he called them, the creatures that he possessed. They were mostly snakes, because he was a Slytherin. And not just any Slytherin, no, Lord Voldemort was the _Heir_ of Slytherin. He wanted poisonous snakes, but he really didn't know one snake from another very well, so he just chose the ones that looked like they might be harmful. Speaking of which, he just spotted a particularly deadly looking one right now. Possessing it would be easy…

Quirinus Quirrell thought that this trip would be fun and exciting. But now, it seemed, he was poorly mistaken. To the contrary, his trip to Albania was lonely and terrifying. He sighed. Mistaken indeed. Quirrell was the kind of guy who liked life best when it was lived in luxury; good food always at hand when he wanted it, someone to talk to, and most of all, nothing to worry about. His trip was giving him none of that. He had to eat berries and various plants after he had finished the food he brought with him, he was so lonesome that he often talked to himself, and he was scared for his life at every turn he took. He was stupid to have ever done this. He shouldn't even have volunteered to become the new defense against the dark arts teacher at Hogwarts, and then he needn't have ever gone on this dumb adventure in the first place! Angry at himself and the world, he stopped walking for a short break and to brush leaves and twigs out of his short brown hair. But then, he heard something rustle on the ground. He couldn't move for fear was consuming him. He took his wand out of one of his robe pockets and held it up. "Who's there?" he yelled into the surrounding trees. No answer. "I-I'm w-warning you! I'm… I'm a p-professor!" Okay so that was just about the best (and lamest) thing he could come up with. But, he didn't even know if it was a person, it could have just been an animal…

Voldemort had successfully possessed his snake. Now he was slithering through the bushes with it, looking for something it could eat. He had to help keep it alive, or it would just die and he'd have to find a new possession. And that would be a waste of time and snakes. But in his search, he spotted something much better than snake food; a man was standing nearby. He was young, by the looks of it, but not school age. He had to be around 20. Then the man seemed to hear him slithering along on the ground toward him, and took out a wand. How lucky could he get? He'll finally get to possess a wizard! "Who's there?" the man shouted. After a few seconds of silence, for Voldemort had stopped moving, he spoke again, "I-I'm w-warning you! I'm… I'm a professor!" Voldemort laughed in his head. As if the fact that he's a bloody _professor_ was going to scare _anybody!_ Ha! But, passing over his idiocy, he will probably be a teacher at Hogwarts! Oh yes, Voldemort thought, he definitely lucked out! He slithered forward to prepare to possess his new, wonderful victim.

It had to be an animal, Quirinus Quirrell thought to himself. And a few seconds later, he was proven right. A snake came out from behind a bush. It was reddish/brownish with a black zigzag pattern on its back. He quickly identified it as a Long-Nosed Adder and took a step back; they were poisonous. Then suddenly something terrifying happened. The snake stopped a few feet in front of him and _something_ flew out of it and towards him. That completely _unidentifiable_ _thing _coming out of the snake caused the Long-Nosed Adder to fly feet into the air and land back on the forest floor, unconscious or dead? The _something_, whatever it was, was getting closer to him by the second, and he didn't even run because he knew he couldn't outrun it, and he didn't move his wand because he knew he couldn't fight it. The next second, it was inside his head. It went right through his skull and it, the _thing_, was now in his head. Without further thought, he disapparated to his home in London. He ran to his bedroom, shut the door, got into bed, and hid under the covers of his sheets and blanket. Like a child. He sighed mentally, and got back up. He was being silly, that thing could not have apparated with him. In his head. 'Oh, but couldn't I have?' said a high, clear, mocking voice. The voice seemed to be coming from him. From his head.

In one swift movement Voldemort stopped the snake a few feet in front of the professor and launched himself out of the creature and into his head. Almost at the exact moment Voldemort was in the man's skull, he dissapparated. And the next moment they were at a small filthy home in what he guessed was somewhere far away from Albania. He was glad to be rid of the place. Then the man ran yelling like a sissy and his under the covers of an unmade bed. He heard the professor sigh in his mind and get back up a few seconds later. He listened to the man's thoughts. He thought- no, he was _sure_ that he had lost 'the thing' back in Albania. Voldemort guessed that he was 'the thing'. The man thought that he couldn't have apparated with him. Ha! "Oh, but couldn't I have?" Voldemort spoke, and he knew this man would hear him inside his head. And he knew that he had probably just scared him half to death. This amused the Dark Lord. Fear always amused him.

Okay, now seemed like a fit time to hide under the sheets like a child, but he didn't. But he still couldn't lie to himself. He couldn't deny that he was scared half to death. "W-what are you?" Quirrell asked, and the voice in his head replied. "A much politer question would have been 'who are you', for future reference. But, I suppose I shouldn't be speaking of politeness, seeing as I have none myself. Anyway, I am Lord Voldemort." Quirrell shuddered. "No! No! Absolutely not, there is no way-!" The _thing_ (for he refused to believe that it was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in his head. In _his _head!) cut across him. "Ah, but there is. You see, I am not dead, but I am far from alive. I am a fragment of soul, and I have attached myself to you. I can read your mind, hear your thoughts. And I see through your eyes." Quirrell nearly fainted. "What do you want? Why are you inside of me?" He wasn't a fool. Quirrell knew that there would be something that the Dark Lord wanted, and he would need him to do it for him. And there wasn't a thing Quirrell could do about it. Nothing.

"What is it that your name is?" Voldemort asked. "Why?" the man responded. "So I can address you properly, thickhead!" Voldemort yelled. "Oh… well my name is Quirinus Quirrell. Err, Professor Quirinus Quirrell." Quirrell said. "Ah, Quirrell… What do I want… What a question. The answer is many things, but at the top of the list at the moment is a new body. And the answer to your next question is I need you to help me achieve that. And he was not expecting the man to agree so suddenly. He thought that he might need a little…persuasion, but, proving him wrong, Quirrell nodded and said "Okay."

"Okay." Quirrell said, because what was he supposed to say? No? He'd be killed, and he knew it. Voldemort could make him do anything now that he was inside him, possessing him. And he knew it. There was _nothing_ at all to be done except join him. And he knew that too. "Umm, what do you want me to do now…? My Liege?"

"Hmm… _'My Liege'… _Now I like the sound of that, it's very creative, I must say. Most of my servants just call me their Lord. I can see that you will be faithful and loyal, Quirrell. It's awfully brave of you to join me so quickly and readily… Yet it was also a very wise decision. Hmm… Bravery, Loyalty, Cleverness… The traits of only 3 of the Hogwarts houses, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw. But, now I must wonder, Quirrell, what house were you in at Hogwarts?" Voldemort asked. He was a little disappointed at the lack of Slytherin traits, but not really surprised. "Slytherin," Quirrell answered. "Don't lie to me, Quirrell. I can be tolerant, but I do _Not. Accept. Lies. _If you were a Slytherin, then the Sorting Hat must have been on crack that day._ " _Voldemort said angrily, he was probably a _Gay_findor and just didn't want to tell him.. "But I'm telling you the truth! It put me in Slytherin! It was having trouble, it said, in deciding to put into Ravenclaw and Slytherin, and I thought in my head 'Ravenclaw is for nerds' and that's when it yelled 'Slytherin'!" Now Voldemort knew he was telling the truth. He always knew, and he could tell even better with this idiot because he was inside his head. "Okay, alright then. I can see the truth in your answer. Now as for your question, 'what do you want me to do'….

Quirrell stepped into his fireplace, threw down some Floo Powder, and said very clearly "The Leaky Cauldron." The next moment there were fireplaces whirling all around them. _Him, _he made himself think. He's by himself. Him. _Alone._ But Voldemort would not let him keep his sanity. "You're not alone, Quirrell… I'm here. In your head! Hahahaha!" They- _he_- stopped whirling around in a blur of fireplaces and the Leaky Cauldron came into view.

Lord Voldemort smiled to himself at the way he was making Quirrell feel. A lot afraid, a little excited, more fear, insane, more fear, and more fear. And to think that Quirrell thought this man may have been a Gryffindor! Yet what was it that he was so afraid of? "Hey Quirrell…" "Yeah? – I mean, yes, My Liege? " Quirrell whispered. Voldemort supposed he didn't want the pub to think he was talking to himself. Though, the idea of him talking to Lord Voldemort ought to be much scarier. He smiled some more. "What is it that you fear, Quirrell? Oh and as funny as it would be for the whole pub to think you're talking to yourself, why don't you just _think_ what you've got to say. I'll hear it just as well as if you'd yelled it on the top of your voice."

Quirrell thought about what Voldemort had said. Not about him being able to hear inside his head (though that was kind of creepy). No, Quirrell was thinking about the question. 'What is it that you fear?' Why was The Dark Lord asking, why does he care? Does he care? Probably not. What should he say? He wasn't even sure he knew what he was afraid of himself, and if he did, it wasn't something one would usually confide to the Darkest Lord. Then the image of the snake flying into the air and landing back on the forest floor. He still couldn't come to the conclusion of whether it had been dead of not, but was that what is going to happen to Quirrell when Voldemort leaves him? "I am sorry Quirrell, but I haven't an idea what will happen. But, if it makes you feel any better, if you do die, I'll regret it." He didn't sound as though he would really regret it, and even if he had, it still didn't comfort him. Now he was seeing sickening images in his mind of Voldemort launching himself out of him, and he flying into the air just like the Long-Nosed Adder had. He heard Voldemort's sigh, or maybe he had just imagined it.

"Hey, Quirrell…" "My Liege?" Quirrell thought. "Don't you see him? He's just come in." "Who?" "Harry Potter!" Quirrell's gaze scanned the room and eventually fell upon Potter who had just recently entered with a man who was so big, he was unmistakably a half-giant.


	2. Laughing With The Lord

Quirrell's mind was now racing. It was racing so fast he wondered if Voldemort could read all his thoughts when they were going by that quickly. He made himself slow down so he could think clearly. He had Voldemort in his head. Potter defeated Voldemort when he was a baby. Voldemort hated potter, so should_ he_? He supposed, if he was working for Voldemort now, he wouldn't really have a choice but to hate him. Hmm… it was starting to seem to Quirrell that he wouldn't have much choice on anything anymore… He sighed and checked his watch. _4:00 P.M_. Then he heard the Dark Lord's voice inside his head. He didn't think he would ever get used to that. "Quirrell, Potter and that great oaf are coming to talk to you. Make sure, when they do, that you stutter." 'S-stutter, My Liege?' "Yes, like that." "But-" "Just do what I ask of you! Stutter! You did it before!" "Okay!" "Don't use that tone with me." Quirrell didn't say anything back. Did he think he was Quirrell's mother or something? "No, Quirrell. I have much more control over you right now than your mother has." Voldemort sneered. He couldn't see the sneer of course, but he knew it was there. He could just feel it.

Voldemort had felt it when the boy, Potter, shook Quirrell's hand. He had sensed it. He didn't quite understand fully… It hadn't hurt. He had felt it as if it was he who shook his hand. He couldn't tell you if his hand was warm or cold, thin or fat. He couldn't tell you if it had been a firm shake or a dainty one. He just knew that the hand had been Potter's hand. Potter's. He felt fury toward the name and then he felt something odd. It hadn't happened before couldn't explain but he didn't like the feeling. "Quirrell stop that!" he said. "What?" Quirrell answered. "Whatever it is that you're doing! Something just happened! Something…kind of… tingly feeling. It's gross!" Quirrell laughed, that bastard. "I just got the goose bumps." "Sounds nasty. What is it?" "Goose bumps are these little bumps you get all over your arms and legs sometimes. And they aren't nasty." Whatever Quirrell said, Voldemort still found little bumps all over your skin to be downright… Disgusting! _I mean, EW!_ He thought, _how is that not absolutely gross with a capital G?! "_Quirrell, what time is it?" Quirrell's looked down at his watch. "Six o' clock, My Liege." Voldemort had kind of liked the 'My Liege' thing at first, but now it was getting a bit annoying. "We're running late, Quirrell. Hurry up." "Yes, My Liege."

Quirrell lay in bed two hours later, feeling disappointed. Wait, no. No, he wasn't. Voldemort was. It was getting harder by the hour to distinguish Voldemort's thoughts from his own. Yet maybe he was a little disappointed that he failed. "You'd better be disappointed, Quirrell, you fool! You make idiots around the globe seem talented!" "I know, My Liege, I'm sorry! Next time I'll-" "Next time! Now it's at Hogwarts! And if you couldn't steal it from Gringotts, how in the name of Merlin are you going to get from Hogwarts?" Quirrell didn't answer. "You're the most incompetent being I've ever had to deal with in my life besides a Troll. But you're almost there. A few more days of idiocy and it'll be a tie!" He could feel Voldemort's misery combined with his own. "I'm sorry." Quirrell said out loud. And then he repeated it a thousand times in his head until he fell asleep.

Voldemort listened to Quirrell's many apologies. It was a while before he realized that Quirrell was saying them in his head. And after an hour, he was positive that Quirrell was now asleep, and that the "I'm sorry"'s simply continued into his dreams. At first he had thought it was annoying. Well, maybe he had never thought that, maybe he just told himself that. Now that he thought about it, Voldemort supposed he just told himself a lot of things, like the fact that Mudbloods are horrible. Why were they horrible, when did he ever come up with that idea? Obviously he wasn't the first to think that. But, to be honest with himself, _he _is a half-blood, even if he did dispose of the filthy Muggle side of his family. At that moment, Voldemort decided to stop telling himself things that weren't really considered true by him, if that makes sense at all… The first truth he told himself was that after all, he really did forgive Quirrell. And the second truth was that despite all the names he had called him, Quirrell wasn't really a bad guy. Of course, Voldemort was a bad guy. And that was the third truth, but what could he do to change it when it had been that way for so long? It was like seeing things in a new perspective. And it wasn't really bad. Actually, Voldemort had a good feeling about his new perspective. And with that, he fell asleep in the comfort of Quirrell's head.

Quirrell awoke the next morning feeling differently about everything. And it was strange because he didn't know why. He had been through situations where he had multiple emotions before, so he decided to try the method he had used then. He was going to separate his emotions. It was some form of Occlumency, but he couldn't remember what that form was called, but he didn't need to. First, he was happy. Very happy, and that was very odd. Next, he was feeling good about himself. Quirrell had never once felt good about himself. He had always been upset with something about him. His height, his paleness, his hair, his stutter... But now, it was like he loved himself and had just realized it overnight! How strange.

Voldemort didn't speak for a whole day. He just didn't know what to say to Quirrell. He let himself think, of course, which was still quite difficult, because many times, he caught himself thinking angry thoughts about how he didn't get the stone because of Quir- No! He wouldn't let himself think that way anymore. It wasn't all Quirrell's fault. He never asked for this. _But he welcomed it, _the voice that he kept trying to keep quiet said. And wasn't that the truth? He hadn't protested. He hadn't lied to Voldemort at all. He had apologized when Voldemort was angry at him. He had showed… compassion? So, Voldemort should do the same for him. Shouldn't he?

Quirrell was getting a bit nervous. Today was the day he Apparates to Hogwarts and the Dark Lord hadn't spoken to him all of yesterday. Was he still mad at him? Was he still disappointed that Quirrell had failed to retrieve that oh-so-precious stone that he wanted? He must be, Quirrell concluded, because it was impossible that he had left. Quirrell knows he would have at least felt it if Voldemort left him. _Or I would have died._ Quirrell thought miserably. Somehow, he just _knows_ that that's how this is going to end. And he knows he won't even try to take the escalator up when he dies, because if he does, it would just reverse. Yes, he was definitely going to hell. But on a brighter side, Quirrell was still feeling that self-like mixed with the nervous.

It kills Voldemort when Quirrell thinks like this! Isn't there a better subject to think about than death?! As if Voldemort wasn't feeling guilty enough. Of course, Voldemort knows he's right. Knows that if Voldemort just left Quirrell, he'd probably die. But he wouldn't tell Quirrell that. Quirrell worries about it enough without his help. Voldemort still hadn't said anything. Quirrell had actually tried communicating with him a few times, like he was getting worried that Voldemort wasn't going to ever talk to him again. "My Liege today is the day," he'd say. "The day we leave for Hogwarts, My Liege…" As if they were…_friends_…! Which they are most certainly not. The Dark Lord doesn't have _friends_. He doesn't want them, he doesn't need them, so therefore he doesn't have them; end of story.

"Master… My Liege…I-I'm about to Apparate. A-are you ready?" Quirrell said out loud. He didn't expect an answer. "I'm ready Quirrell. I'm as ready as it's gonna get for now." Quirrell gasped out loud. It was a good thing he was in his bedroom, with nobody but himself. "What is it, Quirrell? Not expecting an answer from me?" Voldemort said. "Well, My Liege you haven't really been speaking-" "Y'know, Quirrell…" "Yes, M-my Liege?" Quirrell cursed that stutter! "I was just wondering if you've been noticing anything strange during these past 2 days?" "Like, what, My Liege?" "Such as the fact that our feeling and emotions are starting to merge with each other. And that those merged feelings, when similar in meaning, create very, _very_ powerful emotion." "Umm, I've noticed that our feelings are kind of mixing together, yeah, but I'm not sure I know what you mean about the 'very powerful emotions' thing." "Okay, okay. I'll explain this better. Let's say you're a little sad, and I'm a little sad. When those two feelings merge, we'll both become extremely sad, or depressed." "Oh, I get it." "How have you always felt about yourself, Quirrell? Did you like yourself?" Voldemort asked. "I've always thought I was okay, I guess. I have my flaws-" "And how do you feel about yourself right now, at this moment?" "Umm, now that you mention it, I have been feeling pretty great about myself lately, and I don't know why- …OH! I think I get it. I think it all makes sense now! But, you tell me the reason first, because I don't want to be horribly wrong." Quirrell laughed, and Voldemort laughed. He was _laughing _with _Lord Voldemort._ The world had obviously decided to confuse him today.


	3. A Pain In The Neck Or Back Of The Head

**A/N:** So this is the third chapter! I just wanted to say, for anyone who might be confused (I probably should have put this on the first chapter), with each paragraph the POV changes (you have probably noticed that already though). Also, you might have noticed that the summery has changed for the story. That's because it was in 'text style' typing. And well, that's just kind of blah. So, the new summery is thanks to hanjuuluver. Well that's about it, so I hope you enjoy.

Voldemort had expected an awkward silence. And that was exactly what he got out of Quirrell. It was something he had never experienced before, and he didn't like it. "Uh…Quirrell?" … "Yeah?" Quirrell whispered. "Well, uh, so, are we cool?" "Yeah. Yes, we are, uh, _cool_, my Liege-" "Then could I ask you a favor Quirrell?" "Of course, My Liege." "Could you not call me that? Now that we're...We're…" "Um, friends?" "No! I mean...Sorry…now that we're _cool_ it's just a bit…you know…" "Okay, yes. Sure my…my…V-Voldemort…?

Quirrell didn't know what to think. Maybe that was why this was so awkward. The Dark Lord and he were friends!-No, they were, as Voldemort had put it, cool. He had confessed that he had forgiven Quirrell, which Quirrell was happy about. But then it really got awkward when he said that he actually kind of liked Quirrell and wouldn't mind getting to know him better! Quirrell tried to control his feelings, but now he couldn't! He didn't know what he was feeling and he didn't know how he should feel! He set his mind on Hogwarts instead, and Apparated. He was glad to be back at Hogwarts.

Voldemort was all of a sudden very happy, thrilled even, to be back at Hogwarts castle! This was his home. This was where he was comfortable and happy. And it was the only place that ever made him feel this way.

Quirrell was very busy that day, and the students hadn't even arrived yet. He shook hands with Dumbledore, McGonagall, Sprout, Hooch, a bunch of other teachers, and Snape had even nodded his head to him in gesture of a greeting. Then he made his way up to his room and got himself settled. He unpacked his stuff, and then made a cup of tea. As he drank it, he "thought-spoke" to Voldemort. "So, did you like it at Hogwarts as a student?" he asked. "Oh yes, this was my home. My only home." Voldemort answered. "What about wherever you lived during the summers?" "I was an orphan. That orphanage was never a home to me." "Oh. I'm sorry Voldemort." "It's alright. Don't feel sorry for me. I don't like that." "Why?"

Voldemort hadn't expected it, but another truth came to him without him even realizing it. "I don't deserve it. I don't really deserve anything. I don't deserve to be alive." Voldemort said. It was true. And Quirrell obviously knew it was true as well, because he just sipped his tea in silence, and didn't talk to him again for about a half hour.

"Voldemort." Quirrell spoke at last, because he had finally come up with something to say. Something that wouldn't be a lie at least. "Sometimes someone might do something bad, but, I believe, that if that person regrets it…then they aren't really that bad of a person."

Voldemort smiled to himself. Quirrell was trying, and succeeding, to make Voldemort feel better. It was nice, and thoughtful and sweet…but again, he didn't deserve it. And he couldn't understand…did Quirrell actually _like_ him? He supposed it must be because of their merging emotions and thoughts…He couldn't let it happen. Quirrell was a nice guy! Voldemort, no matter what Quirrell said otherwise, was evil! Something had to change. Voldemort knew what he was going to do. It had to be done for he needed Quirrell. And this would keep them just as close as they were now, but it would tear their minds apart. "Quirrell, I need a favor-well, an order actually." "What is it Voldemort?" He wasn't even stuttering anymore when he said Voldemort's name! "I'm going to do something that will help with my plan. Now, it might hurt a bit at first-" He felt panic and alarm rise inside Quirrell. "-really, just a tiny, tiny bit! But it might be easier if you got on your knees on the floor, just in case. I wouldn't want you to accidently fall over and hit your head…And take off your turban."

Quirrell couldn't imagine what was about to happen when he was on his knees in the middle of his room. He waited a few moments, and then the back of his head started to feel cold. It got colder and colder, but all of a sudden it was red hot. Quirrell screamed in agony, clutching his head. It was a good thing he was already on his knees, because he wasn't so far off the ground when he fell over. He thought this must be what the Cruciotus curse must feel like. After what felt like an hour of pain, it stopped. Tears were flowing down his face as he sat up, still holding his head that now felt numb.

"Do you feel alright? Quirrell? _Quirrell!_" Voldemort hoped Quirrell would forgive his little lie when he had said it would only hurt a tiny bit. "Oh, I'm f-f-_fine._ Just d-_dandy._ Perf-fectly w-wonderful!" Quirrell said , his voice was dripping with sarcasm. "I apologize Quirrell, but I had to do it!" said Voldemort. "What the hell did you do?!?!" "Feel the back of your head Quirrell."

Quirrell extended a still-shaking arm. He gently touched the back of his head with just the tips of his fingers. His hair was gone. To his astonishment, there was now a face in its place! _Voldemort's face_!


	4. An Evil Buddy

Voldemort somehow got the feeling that Quirrell didn't much like Voldemort on the back of his head. Somehow… Maybe it was because he hardly ever talked to him anymore, or that when getting ready in the mornings, he wouldn't look at the back of his head in the mirror (when, normally, he would make sure it looked perfect, like a _girl_). Voldemort felt bad now. Why did he do something like this to such a nice guy?

Quirrell got lazily out of bed. It had been about a week, maybe two, since Voldemort had simply placed himself on the back of Quirrell's still-mildly-aching skull. He was very angry; Voldemort never asked Quirrell if it was even okay to do such a thing! And what's more, he had lied, and told Quirrell it wouldn't hurt! They were supposed to be cool. He had thought they were friends. He got dressed and put on his turban before looking in the mirror. He had been almost as bothered by his recent hair-loss as he was with Voldemort's stab in the back. But then, as he thought of the latter, angry tears fill his eyes. But he wouldn't let them spill over. He could hardly believe himself. He had actually developed feelings for the Dark Lord! Feelings of friendship. But Voldemort was heartless; he wouldn't care if he knew. Now that Quirrell thought of it, he probably knew already, especially if he could see into Quirrell's dreams. They were dreams of Voldemort's face, and with them brought not fear, but love.

Oh, Voldemort knew alright. How could he not see it? Quirrell's brain was like his radio station now that he was on the back of his head instead of inside it. Before, he had to hear every single one of Quirrell's thoughts; he could choose not to listen, but they were still there. Now, he could either choose quiet nothingness or Quirrell's thoughts; he could tune in whenever he felt like it. Voldemort had tuned in a few times during the past week even though he wasn't speaking to Voldemort. He heard Quirrell thinking about him. But, Voldemort had never looked into Quirrell's dreams. Those are his personal business. Voldemort sighed; that wasn't exactly evil for the Dark Lord.

"My Lord," Quirrell droned dully. "Today is the day I must talk to that greasy, gothic, sad excuse for a teacher, My Lord." Quirrell's eyes were red because he had hardly gotten any sleep last night. The reason for that was because, of course, despite his silent dispute with Voldemort, he was going to still put his best foot forward. He had to find a way around the obstacle that was Severus Snape. For the evil murderer inside his turban. Why is this wrong? He wondered.

"You show him Quirrell!" Voldemort exclaimed. "Are you feeling good Quirrell?" He was trying to get Quirrell in a good mood. He didn't expect much. Snape was giving Quirrell quite a hard time. And although Voldemort never asked him to, he continued to stutter when talking to everyone. Voldemort knew it wasn't just natural stuttering anymore. It must be, Voldemort thought, to make him look like he would be the last teacher to steal the Sorcerer's Stone. And without Voldemort on the back of his head, he probably would be. "Not particularly." Quirrell answered in a tone of misery. "Oh, come _on _Quirrell! I'm sorry that I didn't tell you what I was going to do! And I'm sorry that I did it without your permission! Forgive me Quirrell! I know that you know we _both_ want you to!" Voldemort whined. "Sorry, I don't speak bastard-language," he said, but he was smiling the smallest smile, that if you looked at him you wouldn't realize it was there. "Please, Quirrell. Forgive poor Lord Voldemort. You can't see it unless you took off your turban and looked at the back of your head in a mirror, but I'm doing the puppy dog face!" Quirrell laughed. "Yes, and I'm sure it's just adorable on you." "Excuse me, are you saying that I'm not attractive?" "Oh, no, of course not, My Lord!" "You _sarcastic_ bastard, you! But despite it, he smiled. He was happy to have Quirrell back as a frie- ……………………………………..nd?

Even though Voldemort was the world's most terrifying evil wizard, even though he had caused him so much pain it wasn't even funny, despite the fact that he had made Quirrell into a baldy (though the thought of his poor hairless head still haunted him) Quirrell, for some reason, forgave him. How could he still be mad after their talk? Okay, okay, he had every right to still be angry and upset. But he wasn't. He just wasn't. Voldemort had become a friend, yes, they were friends whether Voldemort would admit that or not. He set out to talk to Snape, feeling a bit more enthusiastic now that he and Voldemort had settled their argument.

"Ugh! I just can't _believe _you let him speak to you like that Quirrell!" "It's okay." "No! No it is most definitely NOT _okay!_" "Voldemort-" "You should have Crucio'd that damn-" "VOLDEMORT!" ….. "Yes Quirrell?" "You've been ranting ever since I talked to Snape last night. Now that's two nights in a row that I barely got any sleep. So, please, if you would be so kind as to shut _up." _ Who did Quirrell think he was talking to?! Shut up, he had never been told to do such a thing by anybody ever in his entire life! No one had ever _dared _to tell the Dark Lord 'shut up'! "Quirrell, I don't know what your deal today is, but-!"

"No, no, no. Don't even say anything. I'm sorry. I guess it's just tough for me to control my temper sometimes, especially when I'm tired. So, would you please just let me get some sleep?" Quirrell hoped that Voldemort wouldn't be too mad at Quirrell….. "You think I'm just going to let you off the hook after you told me to shut up?!" Apparently not. "Well, actually, yeah. I was hoping so." Quirrell replied. He was sure his cheek would cost him his night's sleep. But Voldemort sighed. "Well, you're lucky I'm a bit tired too. So good night Quirrell." "Good night Voldemort."


	5. A Dramatic Performance

**AN: I know I haven't updated this in a while. Sorry bout that. See, my laptop, which had all my fanfic files on it, broke and we ended up deleting all the files on it. I had already had this chapter completed, so you can imagine that I didn't want to retype the whole thing, but here it is, for all you people out there! Oh, and check out my friend Shoot-the-moon13 's fanfictions, Dumbledore's Secret and Trust Me, will ya? **

They had a plan, an evil plan. It was time to put it in action, Voldemort thought. He wanted to keep reciting it throughout the day just to make sure that Quirrell remembered it. But, unfortunately, Voldemort couldn't talk to Quirrell. Well, technically he could, but he didn't want to interrupt Quirrell while he was teaching. He sighed mentally. He was too nice sometimes for a Dark wizard.

Wanting to talk to Voldemort, Quirrell _tried_ to make the lesson a quick one. But when he thought he was finished and said "any questions?" only because that's what teachers are supposed to do after lessons, nearly half of the stupid brats raised their hands. That was the worst part about when he had to teach the 5th years. They were smart enough to actually ask sophisticated questions, and they weren't afraid or intimidated just because he was a new teacher like the first years. Then when he was answering just the 5th question, the door opened. It was McGonagall. That woman sometimes got on his nerves with her wittiness, overall, she was okay. "Excuse me Professor, but may I borrow Wood for a moment?" She said with a small smirk on her lips that meant she was pretty satisfied about something. "Of c-coarse," was Quirrell's reply and Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor Quidditch captain, stood up and made his way out the door with McGonagall.

If Voldemort had a body he would be squirming with impatience. He wanted to discuss the plan _now._ He wasn't used to not getting what he wanted when he wanted it. It frustrated him. Finally, Quirrell told the student with some of their hands still in the air that the bell was about to ring in 2 minutes and that he was letting them go early that day. Voldemort almost wanted to shout "Thank you!" to Quirrell but he didn't.

Quirrell let the class go 2 minutes early that day. The ones that still had their hands up put them down and started to pack up, grumbling something about having a question. But Quirrell couldn't care less about their questions. He had a few questions of his own for his friend Voldemort. He wanted to talk about their brilliant plan. And as soon as all the kids were out the door Quirrell heard Voldemort sigh with relief and knew he wanted to do the same thing.

"Quirrell!" Voldemort yelled excitedly. Then he fell silent, embarrassed by his silly, girly outburst. Quirrell laughed. "It's okay Voldemort; I'm excited too!" Voldemort smirked from beneath Quirrell's musty turban. He remembered a time when this man was good, but now he was far from good. Or was he? Voldemort didn't think of Quirrell as _bad_, but a man working with a Dark Lord could hardly be called _good._ _He is neither, _Voldemort decided. _No one is good or bad,_ he thought to himself. _There's no such thing as good and evil. _"Err, Voldemort. If that's true, then what is there? What am I?" Apparently Voldemort hadn't applied the Legilimency strong enough. He hadn't wanted Quirrell to hear any of that. "Forget I thought anything, Quirrell," Voldemort said. "Let's just talk about the plan!"

That afternoon, while everyone was in the Great hall enjoying lunch, Quirrell was making his was to the Great Hall from the Dungeons where he had left everyone a little surprise. When he got to the giant door into the Great Hall (that door was big enough for _two _Hagrids!), he stopped a moment, and adjusted his turban, making it lopsided as if he had ran all the way here. Then he yanked open the door and ran in, yelling, "Troll!!! In the dungeon! There's a Troll in the dungeon!" He didn't look at any face in the Hall except for the headmaster's, but he could tell that the students were staring at him. Slowly, panic began to arise from the students and staff, except for Dumbledore, who remained as calm as if Quirrell had announced that it was raining. Quirrell then completed his dramatic start-of-the-plan scene by huffing out, "I just thought you ought to know." He then fell to the ground dramatically, pretending to faint.

Voldemort kept telling Quirrell in his mind, "Don't open your eyes…just keep lying there…wait until you're sure they're all gone…" and Quirrell kept saying "I know…I know…I know…" They listened to the Headmaster telling the students to go to their houses, and telling the teachers to follow him to the dungeons. Even 5 minutes later, when it was dead silent in the Great Hall, Voldemort strained his ears to hear the rustle of a robe, the creak of a bench, or the soft pattering sound of footsteps. When he heard nothing, he thought to Quirrell that it was safe to get up, and move on to part 2 of the plan.


	6. Odd Emotions

Quirrell hopped up off the ground with surprising agility, but then his turban nearly fell off. He couldn't be coordinated for just two seconds, he thought. Not even when he needed to be most. After straightening his turban, he spun around and ran back towards the door and out of the Great Hall. He reached the big staircase and went up three flights of steps as fast as a man with no athletic ability could go. He took a deep breath. This was it. The moment he had been waiting for, he was about to walk into the 3rd floor corridor and the plan would be halfway through. "Can you feel it, Voldemort?" Quirrell thought. Quirrell felt it. Voldemort hadn't spoken the whole way up the stairs, surprisingly, not even to make fun of Quirrell and how clumsy he was. He reached his hand out and swallowed hard. For some reason, this door to the 3rd floor corridor felt like the door to his destiny. He knew very well that he could die today. If Voldemort left Quirrell, he could die. His shaking hand touched the door handle.

Voldemort knew Quirrell was about to open the door when he decided to say something. "Look, Quirrell, man…I-I've never had a friend before I found you. I just…before we…I just want to let you know, that whatever might happen, these past months that we've spent together, Quirrell…These were the best days of my life. So far, I mean…" He added, not wanting to sound too mushy. It didn't work. The affect it gave made it even more mushy. Voldemort could feel the tears in Quirrell's eyes, or maybe those were his own.

Quirrell still had his hand on the handle. He bit his lip. He didn't want to open the door anymore. Not because he was afraid of dying, but because he was afraid of losing his best friend. He squeezed the handle tighter. He had to do this. This was what had been planned all along. Quirrell had been meant to do this all along. It was the reason he was here. It was the reason Voldemort was on the back of his head, under his turban.

Voldemort sighed. "You don't have to," he said softly. He couldn't remember _ever_ speaking that gently in his life. Quirrell let out a small sob. "Yes I do," Quirrell whispered, and he pushed open the door.

Some people think that the best things in life are the things that are least expected. Quirrell decided then that he completely disagrees, because never would he have expected that when he opened that door, that he would come face-to-face with Severus Snape. Quirrell's jaw dropped. Snape sneered at him without saying anything, and Quirrell stood completely still. He knew Voldemort was in shock too. "Well, well, well. Who have we here? Quirrell, what are you doing up here on the third floor corridor?" Snape asked. Quirrell closed his mouth, and trying to regain some confidence, he stood up straighter and said, "I c-could ask you the s-same question, Severus." Snape narrowed his eyes and smirked. The affect was intimidating. "I suppose you could," he said. "We should both be in the dungeons right about now, don't you think? Come on, I'll walk with you Quirrell." Snape said and began to walk. When Quirrell didn't follow, he turned, raised his eyebrows and said "Coming?" Quirrell nodded and reluctantly began to walk alongside Snape.

Voldemort was seething with fury. The whole plan was ruined because of Snape. When Voldemort gets his new body, that man better run for it. There was no way he was going to let Snape back Voldemort's inner circle of Death Eaters. With each step Quirrell took they were getting farther and farther away from his goal. The distance between Voldemort and the Sorcerer's Stone, immortality, became more and more.

Quirrell's insides were squirming. Snape always made him feel uneasy, the way his black pupils constantly glanced at Quirrell's turban through the corners of his eyes. He walked purposely slightly behind Snape, trying to keep out of his gaze. For the most part, the trip was silent. However, when they were nearing the dungeons, Snape asked, "Why were your eye's watering?" Quirrell looked at Snape and saw that he was staring at his turban again. "Er, the, the garlic in m-my turban. It, it sometimes m-makes my eyes water." Snape raised an eyebrow. Quirrell hated when he did that. "Then why don't you take it off?" Severus asked. Quirrell couldn't come up with anything that would help his case other than, "The g-garlic keeps the v-vampires away…"

Voldemort could tell Snape was suspicious. At least they were almost to the dungeons, he thought. When they got there, nobody was in the room where Quirrell had left the Troll, so he followed Snape into the girl's lavatory. He was still so mad that he didn't have the Stone right now; he was about ready to burst. Yes, it was true; he had told Quirrell that he didn't have to go through with it. But, but he had only said that because…er…_I must have been out of my mind _Voldemort thought to himself. But another voice in his head, a tiny, microscopic voice, said, _you must have been in love_. Crazy talk. Voldemort thought. That was just plain insane. The Dark Lord actually loving and caring about someone? He could have laughed…Or at least, that's what he told himself.

Quirrell's jaw dropped involuntarily when he saw his Mountain Troll on its back, knocked out cold. What was even more surprising was who had apparently been the cause of this. Three first year students stood sheepishly in front of the headmaster. Quirrell recognized two of them. One was Harry Potter, easily recognizable by his lightening-shaped scar and messy black hair. The next was a girl called Something-with-an-H Granger. He had forgotten her first name. He only recognized her because she was one of the smartest students he taught, and that included 7th Years. The last student was a red-headed, freckle-faced boy. Must be another Weasley, Quirrell concluded. Yes, he could tell the Gryffindor robes that the boy wore were hand-me-downs. It was lucky that Quirrell didn't have to stay long in there with grease-head Snape. Almost immediately after he walked in Dumbledore announced that they were done in there, and Quirrell was free to get as far away from Snape and the other staff as possible.

That night, Voldemort dreamt of some of the strangest things he had ever dreamt of. First there was a small baby in a purple turban too big for its little head. Voldemort took care of the baby; he fed it and held it. Then all of a sudden, while he was holding it, the baby changed into a full-grown man still in his arms. The man leaned in close to Voldemort; when their lips were nearly touching, Voldemort disappeared and found himself inside a big purple dome. He was in the man's turban. He kept trying to find a way out but he couldn't. Soon dream-Voldemort, desperate to get out, charged at the back of the turban. He made a hole through it and escaped, but as soon as he left the turban, the man who was wearing it dropped dead.

Quirrell woke up sweating and breathing fast. He had just had a strange and terrible dream…


	7. A Guys Night Out

**AN:**

**Enter, reader, but take heed **

**Of what awaits the sin of greed.**

**For those who think ****reviews ****need not be created,**

**The fanfictions they like**

**Will not be updated.**

**So if you love or like or hate,**

**Please ****review**** if you want an update.**

In the morning Voldemort felt angry. Angry at life, if you could call living on the back of someone's head that. He needed to yell at somebody. He knew he would regret this later, but Quirrell was his only option. He started just shouting. At first he was hardly sure of what about… but before he knew it Voldemort was yelling all his woes, misfortune and misery into Quirrell's mind. It sounded a little something like this: "First you couldn't get my stone from Gringotts, and now you fail to get it from Hogwarts! You filthy, _SWINE_! You are the worst professor I could have possibly gotten from that forest in Albania! Thanks a lot! Now I'll NEVER get the Sorcerer's Stone, let alone a new body! And it will be ENTIRELY _your_ fault! And now Snape, being the lap-dog traitor that he is, is sure to tell the headmaster that he found you sneaking about! I think he's onto us as well! Did you see how he kept looking at your turban?!"

Quirrell didn't flinch as Voldemort viciously accused him. He really couldn't blame Voldemort for being mad because he hadn't just failed his master; he had failed his friend. He wished he knew how Voldemort felt, so that he would know how to react. But honestly, Quirrell _really_ hadn't done anything wrong. As soon as Quirrell thought that, Voldemort stopped yelling at him. Oh, now he'd done it. Stupid thoughts…

Voldemort forced himself to stop and think for just a few seconds. Quirrell was right; he hadn't done anything wrong. It was really not his fault at all… He began to feel slightly embarrassed by his outburst. "I-I was destroyed by a baby, Quirrell! I know it happened a long time ago man, and y-you would think I'm over it by now. But… It was just a horrible expirience! Shameful! And ever since then, it just seems like nothing, _nothing_, turns out the way I want it to anymore! I'm just…tired, Quirrell, of trying to find somebody to blame for my problems and never even considering myself; never stopping to wonder, 'maybe this is all _my_ fault!"

Now Quirrell felt very bad for Voldemort. He was no longer yelling angrily at Quirrell. Now it was more like he was yelling angrily at himself. "It isn't your fault, Voldemort, don't say that." He heard Voldemort laugh madly, like when you're laughing at something so horribly ironic that it's funny only to you.

"But it is my fault! This is _all_ my fault! And you, whom I'm controlling and using and making do my dirty work, are telling me that it isn't my fault." Voldemort stopped in his tracks. He was pouring his all his feelings out. Dark Lords weren't supposed to have feelings; or at least not feelings of sorrow, shame, or…or…. Whatever he felt towards Quirrell. Compassion, care, affection. It was disgusting.

Quirrell decided to try to get the Dark Lord into a better mood by attending the next Quidditch match. It was Slytherin verses Gryffindor. It might brighten Voldemort's day if their house, Slytherin, won…or if their enemy, Harry Potter, fell off his broomstick and broke his neck. Unfortunately, Quirrell got stuck sitting directly in front of Grease-Head. He kept leaning forward in fear that Snape would just flip off his turban at any moment. Luckily this didn't happen. A little ways through the match, Quirrell decided to have a little fun. Right after Potter had dodged an oncoming bludger, Quirrell started muttering curses and hexes under his breath. Harry's broomstick began to lurch, zigzag through the air, and try to buck him off. Nobody seemed to even be noticing. Then he made his broom roll and Harry nearly fell off. He was now dangling from it, holding on with only one hand. He tried to make it buck again so that Potter would fall, but he couldn't. He felt like something was holding him back and by habit he turned around. Snape was muttering nonstop counter-curses under his breath. This made Quirrell mad, and he began to mutter his own curses quicker than before. Nearly a minute later, Quirrell felt someone moving behind him. Before he could turn, they shoved past him, making him fall headfirst into the row in front of him. When he regained his standing position, he smelled smoke. Snape stood up quickly and started beating his robes which were for some reason on fire, 'accidently-on-purpose' knocking Quirrell over. When Quirrell got up again, Potter was already back on his broom. And even worse, Gryffindor had won. He hadn't even seen how.

Quirrell seemed to be trying to cheer Voldemort up. It was funny, he'll admit, the look on Potter's face when he thought he was about to fall off his broom and plunge to his death. He didn't even care that Gryffindor had won the match. What did bother him though was that it was almost Christmas. He hated the holiday. The reason for that being he supposed was that as a child he had never received any real Christmas presents. Sure, at the orphanage they always gave all of the kids, even him, something cheap and small that would usually break by the next month, but never anything that was special or unique. All the orphans got the same present and he had no friends there to get him anything else. While he was at Hogwarts, Voldemort's gang had always given him money or candy for Christmas. But money or candy wasn't special. Money or candy didn't prove that they actually knew him well or liked him. It just said that they were afraid of Voldemort and what he might do to them if he didn't get anything from them for Christmas. Thinking back, maybe Voldemort should have gotten them a little something for Christmas… Ugh, no, that would have ruined his reputation…

Quirrell wasn't really that excited that Christmas was coming. Who would he get presents from? Probably nobody, he thought. He had no family except for distant cousins and uncles, and Voldemort was really his only close friend. But on Christmas morning he had a few things. Apparently a bunch of 5th years had all pitched in to create a big flashy card. It wasn't much, just a card, but Quirrell appreciated the gesture and it kind of made him feel sorry for being rude to them before. Then there was a fairly good sized bottle of sherry from McGonagall, and a vial that was lableled 'Sobering Potion' from Professor Snape that he definitely had no intention of drinking. He felt a twinge of annoyance at Snape's choice of potion; did he think Quirrell was a drunk?! Then he read a small folded piece of parchment that apparently was the card. It read "To use after you've used Minerva's gift. –Severus." He glanced again at the bottle of Sherry that Minerva had given him and rolled his eyes. Dumbledore had sent him a card that sang a Muggle Christmas carol every time you opened it. Quirrell flinched when he separated the 2 flaps of the card, and almost threw it when a women's voice came out of it singing, "Santa baby, slip a sable under the tree, for me. Been an awful good girl, Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight…" Quirrell laughed to himself; that was just like Dumbledore.

Voldemort didn't know what he had expected, but there were no presents for him. Why would there be? Nobody knew about him being here, except for Quirrell. He should have known because if Quirrell had gotten him anything, he would have seen it, he would have known about it. But…he had been hoping…

Quirrell felt bad for not getting Voldemort a present. He felt as though he should because they were friends. But it wouldn't have been a surprise and Quirrell always believed that the best part about getting presents was the surprise of it. So Quirrell had decided he would surprise Voldemort. He would take him out for Christmas.

Voldemort was delighted that Quirrell had indeed thought of him for Christmas. When he told Voldemort that they were going out, Voldemort half-heartedly said that they really should be working on another plan. But, Quirrell convinced him (Come on, dude! You deserve a good break!") and so they went to the Hogshead bar and drank down Firewhisky until they were so drunk they could barely walk, and that didn't take long. "I should have figured," Voldemort hiccupped as they made their way back into Quirrell's sleeping chambers. "That with the both of drinking into one belly *hiccup* we would g-get twice as drunk." **;)**

Quirrell had never been so drunk. And obviously, neither had Voldemort; he kept hiccupping and giggling. If he weren't drunk himself, it probably would have really freaked Quirrell out. "I haven't h-had this much fun in a while," Quirrell said smiling. Voldemort coughed and hiccupped and said, "I…can't remember _ever_ having fun!" For such a depressing statement, Voldemort said it quite happily and giggly. "You've never had fun before?" Quirrell questioned him. "Ha ha…Nope." Quirrell didn't know what to say to this, so he kept quiet. He staggered into his room, and tripped. Luckily, the oh-so soft wooden floor was there to break his fall, and that's where he slept. Before he drifted off to sleep however, he though of the Soberng Potion Snape had given him. Had it not been from Snape, it would have come in handy. But since it was, Quirrell dared not drink anything that hook-nosed, greasey-headed slime ball had given him. He'd rather eat 15 Blood Pops, to which he was highly allergic.

Voldemort was slowly, very slowly, coming back to himself. They hurt. Especially in their head. When his vision got a little clearer he took note that they were on the floor. Apparently, Quirrell had fallen over, and decided to sleep where he had landed. Well that wasn't a problem for Voldemort. As long as Quirrell wasn't feeling too groggy to make evil plans in the morning…


	8. A Hangover More Evil Than The Dark Lord

**AN: Sooooo sorry for not updating in forever. Sadface. I had writers block for some time and then I thought I might never come back (gasp no not that) and then… I was browsing youtube and saw AVPM(: And so I came on fan fiction just to breing back memories of the fanfic I had been writing and I saw that even like a million years later you people are still reviewing, and it just broke my little heart that I had been depriving you of the lovely Quirrelmort goodness that you deserve. Also, as a side note, I DID change the chapter names. I hope its not confusing or too saddening but it was just getting hard to keep up with and if I made many more chapters like that I felt it was just going to sound stupid. So, fresh chapter titles(: Anyway, much, much later than it should have been, I give you the next chapter:**

Quirrell woke up with his head hurting on the inside and out. It was quite literally throbbing in pain. Just touching his temple very, _very _gently set it off. He felt like screaming in agony but Voldemort did that for him.

Voldemort and Quirrell were shaking on the floor. Voldemort hardly slept 4 hours last night! Quirrell, however, was still asleep. How? He had no idea, because quite frankly, this floor was _not_ comfortable, much to Voldemort's distaste. He was used to being comfortable! A few minutes later, Quirrell woke up. He reached his hand to their temple. It put them in such pain that Voldemort cried out. It was…strange…really strange to hear himself scream. He wasn't usually in pain, he was usually the one putting _others_ in pain.

"Voldemort…" Quirrell said weakly. He must have touched where the bruise was from when he hit the ground last night. That pain mixed with the hangover just made it terrible. Would sobering potion help a hangover? He didn't know, and he still didn't want to drink that potential poison that Snape sent. He decided against the option and crawled over to the couch where they spent the rest of the day. Early the next morning, Quirrell felt way better. He hoped Voldemort was feeling the same.

Voldemort still felt somehow bad. The pain was gone but he felt fuzzy. As if he was…tired or something. Voldemort had never been tired before. Dark Lords shouldn't be tired because they can sleep if and when they want to. "Quirrell. I want energy." Voldemort demanded. Quirrell, confused, asked, "What? Well, what do you expect me to do about that?" Voldemort rolled his eyes. "Drink a potion."

Quirrell raised his eyebrows. "Oh, hang on, let me go prancing off to Snapey's bedroom, wake him up, and politely ask him to brew an energizing potion! Yeah, that'll definitely work!" He couldn't help the sarcasm. He just simply was not a morning person. When he was tired, he was cranky and sarcastic to anyone who dared talk to him before he'd had his breakfast. "Do I hear sarcasm, Quirrell?" Voldemort asked, daring Quirrell to say something that would get on his nerves. And Quirrell was tempted to reply with a snooty 'you tell me,' but composed himself, and instead he said… "Why, yes, you do." That wasn't much better. Actually it was sort of worse…

Voldemort sighed. He wanted to make evil plans, but he was too drowsy to even act evil. He decided he would just relax a while, and not worry about whatever Quirrell did today. It was the end of the Holiday vacation, so Quirrell had to teach. It was the perfect opportunity to get sleep. After all, he needs to be well rested if wishes to kill Potter.

The first class Quirrell had to teach was the bratty little First years. Ah, what a joy it was to teach the young ones. Full of potential, full of hope… completely lacking brains, skill and anything else for that matter. All in all, it was torture. Quirrell never liked little kids. When he walked in the classroom, he found that most of them were sitting, but most were up and talking. And some of them had switched seats to sit by their friends, probably hoping Quirrell wouldn't notice. Little brats… "A-Alright class," he said, trying to get their attention. It didn't work. He repeated it, "_Alright_, class." Still hardly anything. Their attentions were apparently focused on something more important than himself. He would fix that. "**CLASS!**" The students had never heard him yell so loudly. They were used to quiet, stuttering, Quirrell. "When I want your attention, that means I want it right now! Do you understand me?" A Hufflepuff girl in the front row started crying. Quirrell, just not in the mood, muttered to himself, "Oh, you've gotta be kidding me," and Voldemort started laughing, in his head of course. "Ms. Bones I didn't mean y-you, you were sitting, I saw you… S-Susan?" She stopped crying, but didn't look at Quirrell. Great. He now scared young children.

Voldemort was feeling much better when he woke up. And not to mention he woke up just in time to see Quirrell make a Hufflepuff first year cry! If he had hands, he would have given Quirrell a high five! It wasn't until Voldemort got over how incredibly funny that was that he noticed who else was in the room. Harry Potter. Along with his ginger head boyfriend and the bushy haired mudblood girl. Eh. . . Maybe he would go back to sleep.


	9. Somebody Finds Their End

**AN: Bit of a short one, but at least its an update. ****J**

"Okay, it was _not _that funny, Voldemort," Quirrel said, trying to get bring the Dark Lord back from his fit of laughter. They were back in Quirrel's room. "Hahaaa! You have to be kidding, Quirrel! That was the funniest shit I've seen in a while! God that was almost as funny than the time Lucius and Snape got so piss drunk that they both thought that the other was a woman, and they started making out!" Voldemort said as his words collapsed into another fit of breathless giggles. "Can't blame then," Quirrel smirked as he unwrapped his turban and set it on a chair, "They both look rather like girls with those haircuts. Ugly girls, but girls nonetheless. I guess it was pretty hilarious, I've never made a kid cry before… At least it was just a Hufflepuff. No one cares about them anyway."

"Actually," said a voice coming from the doorway, "We Hufflepuffs are particularly good finders. I just came to ask a question about the lesson tod- Wait, oh my- Professor! Professor there's- there's a face on the back of your head!" Merlin damn it, Voldemort thought. They were busted.

"Shit!" Quirrel said, jumping up shocked. "KILL HIM!" He heard his master yell, and obediently he whipped his wand out of his robe pocket, and raised it. A flash of green light. The boy was dead.

"Quirrel, listen to me man, we had no other choice!"

"Oh my god, oh my god…" Quirrel continued, crying. His words and sobs were muffled by his hands, and he kept muttering things Voldemort could barely make out. "Okay, now I know you're upset but we need a plan, Quirrel. We need a story of what happened and we need to do something with the body."

"I cant believe I just killed someone… a kid… He'd just wanted to ask me a question and I killed him…oh my god.." With this Voldemort focused on his Possession. He needed Quirrel to calm down, so he was going to have to force him to. He invaded his friend's mind and willed him to take deep breaths…

The Professor's sobs eased after a few minutes. He was truly distressed, but his Lord was right. They needed to act. About an hour and a half later they were in shallow depths of the Forbidden Forest with a body bag. They had decided to make use of Voldemort's rare ability to control snakes using their language, Parseltongue…

The next day, at the boy's funeral, Dumbledore spoke of how poor Cedric Diggory had apparently ventured off on his own into the Forest, and that he appeared to have died from a snake bite.


End file.
